


Sugar and Spice

by Emospritelet



Series: Sprite's Festive Ficlets [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Christmas Dinners, F/M, Fingerfucking, Groping, I can't have this lone T in an ocean of Es, I know you, Innuendo, Kissing, Oral Sex, Smut, Spending Christmas together by accident, Sprite's Festive Ficlets, Strangers to Lovers, at least it will be if someone prompts me to continue, come on you guys, make me make them bang, okay here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16801921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: Lacey French had her solitary Christmas dinner all planned out - until her oven stopped working.  It's Christmas Eve and there's no chance of getting anyone out to fix it, so she decides to ask her neighbour if she can use his.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> @anonymousnerdgirl prompted: Woven Lace 26: “Whisky is a perfectly acceptable alternative to turkey”

****Lacey French stared into the cold depths of the oven as though the pure force of her rage would make the fucking thing work. It was no good. After several weeks of intermittent problems (which she had informed the super about, for all the bloody good that had done) it had finally given up the ghost. On Christmas Eve, of all days.

“Thanks for nothing, you piece of shit,” she told it.

She slammed the oven door shut with a curse and straightened up, tempted to kick the thing in frustration. At eight thirty in the evening, there was no way she would get anyone to come out and fix the piece of junk, and she had two bowls of cookie dough all ready to roll out. Not to mention the turkey breast joint she had prepared to cook for her solitary Christmas dinner the next day. At this rate she was going to be celebrating with a bag of chips and some cheese and crackers. At least she had booze. That didn’t need heating up. She had planned to mull some of the wine, but fuck it: she’d drink it as it came.

Chewing her lip, she thought through her options, which were extremely limited. Find somewhere that was open and serving hot food on Christmas Day, and eat alone in a noisy diner with a bunch of strangers who had no family to share the day with. She shuddered at the thought of it. It was no good. She would have to ask one of the neighbours if she could borrow their oven for an hour or two.

Mind made up, she whipped off her apron, washed and dried her hands, and stomped out of the apartment. She ignored apartment 5: Mulan and Ruby had gone away for the holidays to a romantic cabin retreat, and wouldn’t be back until New Year. She didn’t even glance at apartment 6: Zelena hadn’t spoken to her since Lacey had thrown a drink over her for harassing Ruby in Roni’s bar, and good bloody riddance. Which only left apartment 7.

She had spoken to the man in there only once, when she had first moved into the building. The following day, he had banged on her door to tell her to turn her bloody music down. Okay, so it had been six-thirty in the morning, but how was she to know he’d been working all night? He was a detective, as far as she knew. Detective Weaver. A short, thin man in his fifties who looked as though he worked too much, drank too much, and needed a decent night’s sleep. Or possibly a damn good lay, she hadn’t quite decided. Didn’t look to her like he got much of either.

She squared her shoulders, knocking rapidly on the door before putting her hands on her hips and waiting for him to answer. There was a rattle of chain from the other side of the door, and it opened to reveal Weaver in his shirtsleeves, a glass of whisky in one hand and a faint scowl on his face.

“Hey,” said Lacey. “I’m Lacey French, remember? The girl from number 2? You said I was a bloody nuisance and had shit taste in music once.”

“I remember,” he said dryly, and took a sip of his drink. “What do you want?”

Lacey took a deep breath.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” she said. “I had my Christmas dinner all planned out, and was gonna bake cookies tonight, but my oven’s broken. I was wondering if I could borrow yours.”

He stared at her for a moment. There were heavy silver rings on his fingers, glinting in the light. No wedding band, though. She wondered if there ever had been. A bracelet of thick silver links ran around his wrist, fastened with a bar and ring clasp. The light shining from behind him caught the hairs on his forearm, outlining it in gold, and he licked a stray droplet of whisky from his lower lip, his gaze narrow-eyed.

“You want to cook in my kitchen?”

“Yeah.” She shifted from foot to foot. “Sorry, I wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency. I realise Christmas is a busy time for everyone, but...”

She trailed off. He was giving her a flat, dark-eyed stare over the top of his whisky glass. There were no smells of cooking from inside the apartment, no sound of friends or family chatting and laughing, not even the TV providing some background noise. Looked like he was as alone as she. Weaver took a sip of his drink.

“How long would you want to use it for?”

“Oh, about two hours tonight and maybe three hours tomorrow,” she said hastily. “I - I bought myself a turkey breast for dinner, but I have prep to do now. Gonna make the trimmings.”

“Seems like a lot of work for one meal.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugged. “‘Tis the season, you know?”

He eyed her in silence, and she wondered what he was thinking. Given his obvious lack of company or decent food, the possibility of making her request more enticing occurred to her, and she gestured at his glass.

“So - is that your Christmas dinner?” she asked. “That sucks.”

“Whisky is a perfectly acceptable alternative to turkey,” he said coolly.

“Not saying getting wasted’s a bad choice given the way the world is right now,” she allowed, “but my roast turkey’s pretty good. If you help me out I’d be willing to let you share it. Good food, some booze, maybe some conversation...”

“Do I look as though I’m desperate for company?”

Lacey rolled her eyes.

“Whatever,” she said, with a sigh. “Are you gonna let me use your oven or not? There’s a turkey dinner, eggnog and wine in it for you. Play your cards right I might even throw in some of the cookies.”

Weaver rubbed an eye tiredly, grumbling under his breath.

“Are they cinnamon cookies?” he asked.

“I got chocolate chip and ginger, and cinnamon and orange,” she said. “Gonna put frosting on ‘em, too.”

Weaver shrugged wearily.

“Alright then,” he said, stepping back and waving a dismissive hand. “Clean up after yourself, keep the noise down and don’t fucking bother me with anything.”

“Merry fucking Christmas to you, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @timelordthirteen prompted: 27: "Wow, I had no idea the Grinch was a real person"

Lacey hurried back to her apartment, relieved that she actually had the means to bake her cookies and make her Christmas dinner. Okay, so she would have to share it with someone for whom Christmas spirit appeared to be in short supply, but on the other hand she supposed Weaver could easily have told her to bugger off. She’d make the miserable bastard enjoy himself if it killed him.

She dashed into the kitchen, gathering up everything she thought she’d need and packing it into a wooden crate, emptied of its cache of books. She wasn’t sure what equipment Weaver would have in his kitchen, so she packed some pans and utensils of her own, along with wine and brandy, spices and oranges, eggs, milk, cream and sugar, and the vegetables she wanted to prepare. Bowls of cookie dough and some cutters were balanced somewhat precariously on top, and Lacey struggled a little with the door as she tried to carry everything.

Weaver said nothing as he answered the door to her again, his only reaction a lifting of one brow, and Lacey barged into his apartment, huffing a little under the weight of the box.

“Kitchen’s that way,” he said, jerking his head, and she stomped off, hearing him lock the door behind her.

He didn’t follow her in, and she spent a moment or two looking around herself. The kitchen was very clean, and she wasn’t sure if that meant he was just a tidy person, or that he never used it. A quick look through his cupboards revealed that he certainly didn’t cook as much as she did, but she had everything she needed. She rolled up her sleeves, tied her apron and set to work.

Her first task was to put on some music to work to, and so she found a Christmas compilation on her phone and set it on the kitchen worktop. _It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year_ began to play, and Lacey sang under her breath as she turned on the oven and prepared to bake the cookies.

It was less than a minute before Weaver entered the kitchen with a scowl on his face.

“What the bloody hell is this?” he demanded.

“Christmas music,” she said. “Fun, right?”

“For who, exactly?”

“Oh, come on!” she protested. “You can’t hate this one, it’s so positive you could punch yourself in the face!”

“That’s what I feel like doing right now.”

“Well, I have like a hundred songs just like it, so you might want to wear earplugs,” she said.

He gave her a very level look, eyes flashing a little. Nice eyes, she decided, or they would be if they weren’t glaring at her. He had high cheekbones, his hair greying at the temples. She wondered what his story was, and how he had ended up half way around the world in Seattle, of all places.

“I thought I told you to do this quietly,” he snapped.

“No, you told me to keep the noise down,” she retorted. “And I am, the volume’s low. Do you mind if I use your pans?”

He blinked at her abrupt change of subject.

“What?”

“Pans,” she said patiently. “I’m gonna make eggnog. I’ll need a saucepan.”

He opened and closed his mouth, and then shrugged, as if he didn’t care what she did.

“In the cupboard,” he said. “Wash up after yourself.”

He disappeared again, and she rolled her eyes, turning back to her work.

* * *

An hour and a half later, she washed her hands a final time and took off her apron, rolling her shoulders with a sigh. The kitchen smelled wonderful, warm with spices and sharp with citrus. Lacey had prepared the spiced red cabbage she wanted to serve with the meal the next day, and it was bubbling slowly on the stove top, sending up the scents of orange, cloves, star anise and cinnamon. The cookies were cooling on wire racks, and the eggnog was chilling in the fridge. She turned off the music, and as though the sudden silence was an invitation, the kitchen door opened.

“Finished, have you?” said Weaver grumpily. “Took your bloody time.”

“I’ve mostly finished,” she confirmed. “The cabbage needs time to cook down, but we can just leave it for a couple of hours.”

“A couple of _hours_?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you wanting to use the stove to cook yourself some actual food?” she asked sarcastically. “Seems to me like whisky’s your main course and dessert.”

“My bad habits are none of your business.”

“Got that right,” she said. “You want to kill yourself with zero nutrition and too much booze, be my guest. Just wait until after Christmas, don’t be a buzzkill.”

Weaver stared at her, and barked a reluctant laugh that made her eyes widen in surprise. The guy had a dark sense of humour, but then she supposed cops had to. He must have seen a lot of shit in the years he’d been a detective. She wondered if he slept okay, or if he carried the victims with him when he left work. Did he drink to shut out the dark world he tried to make sense of, or was it something more personal?

“So I’m stuck with you for two hours, am I?” he growled.

“You’ll find I’m an _excellent_ guest,” she announced, and tossed her apron on top of her box of ingredients, raising an eyebrow at him as she put her hands on her hips. “Wanna taste the goods?”

He gazed at her for a moment, his expression cautious.

“Alright.”

“Go sit down then, and quit getting under my feet,” she ordered.

He muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, and stomped out again. Lacey looked in the cupboards, finding glasses for the eggnog. She poured two large measures, finishing with grated nutmeg, and put some cookies on a plate before setting everything on a battered old tray and carrying it through to the lounge. Weaver was seated on the couch, nursing a glass of whisky, but he put it aside, sitting forward as she came through and set the tray down on the coffee table.

“What’s this?” he said suspiciously.

“Eggnog.”

“Never had it.”

“Well, then your life is about to become infinitely more enjoyable,” she said dryly. “Tastes like Christmas, trust me.”

“Really?” he remarked. “The subtle flavours of rampant commercialism, family feuds and disappointing holiday parties?”

Lacey put her hands on her hips.

“Wow, I had no idea the Grinch was a _real person_!”

“I’m only saying what most people think.”

“Yeah, well maybe you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people,” she said, and picked up one of the cookies, almost shoving it in his mouth. “Eat that and stop being a miserable shit.”

Weaver glared at her, but took a bite of the cookie. Lacey took one for herself, slumping onto the couch next to him and watching him out of the corner of her eye as he ate. He didn’t say anything, but took another, larger bite. She allowed herself a tiny smile as he sat forward and reached for one of the glasses of eggnog, taking a cautious sip, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

“That’s actually okay,” he said reluctantly.

“Shut up, it’s fucking delicious.”

She reached for her own glass, and Weaver took another drink, coughing a little.

“Fuck, it’s strong!” he said. “Is that brandy?”

“Told you you’d like it,” she said smugly, and he looked amused.

“What’s in it?” he asked.

“Egg yolks, milk, cream, sugar and spice,” she said, taking a mouthful. She swallowed, letting out a contented murmur. “And a shit ton of brandy.”

“So it’s alcoholic custard, then?”

Lacey chuckled.

“I guess,” she allowed. “You can use rum instead, but I had brandy, so…”

She shrugged, and took another sip. There was silence for a moment, and Weaver reached for another cookie, this one studded with chocolate chips.

“Do you always make all this just for yourself?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” she said. “Sometimes there’s someone around to help me eat and drink it all, but usually it’s just me.”

“Surprised you don’t make yourself sick.”

“My bad habits are none of your business,” she said, throwing his own words back at him. “Besides, if you don’t enter the New Year feeling hungover, nauseous and filled with regret, you won’t want to make all those promises to yourself about how things are gonna change, right?”

Weaver grunted, although whether it was in recognition or disagreement she was unsure. He glanced across at her, the tip of his tongue sweeping a creamy droplet from his lower lip.

“So what promises are you gonna make to yourself this time, then?”

Lacey took a sip of her drink, settling back against the cushions.

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe this year’ll be different. Maybe I’ll decide to give myself a break.”

He looked weary then, his brows lifting in the middle, his forehead creasing as his eyes seemed to look far beyond the room itself.

“A philosophy I can support,” he said. “Even if it’s one I won’t embrace.”

“Maybe it’s time you did.”

“Maybe it’s too late.”

“What did I say about being a buzzkill?”

He grinned at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Alright,” he acknowledged. “I’ll promise to try my best not to kill your buzz, if you promise no more Christmas music.”

“I can’t agree to that.”

“Fine,” he said. “One miserable bastard, coming up. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Shut up and drink your custard.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @jackabelle prompted: 31: "which list do you think he put me on?"

Lacey was surprised to find that she actually enjoyed Weaver’s company. He was fairly taciturn at first, but once she got him to drink another glass of eggnog he became a little more talkative, and he had a dry and sarcastic sense of humour that matched her own. He also ate about six of the cookies, so clearly had good taste in treats as far as she was concerned.

“I’m gonna have to make some more, aren’t I?” she remarked, and he shrugged, taking a bite of one of the ginger cookies.

“I’ll make this the last,” he said. “They’re good. Who taught you to cook?”

“Me, I guess,” she said. “My dad wasn’t exactly the greatest when it came to - well, anything, really - but I had these vague memories of Christmas dinner at my grandmother’s house in England when I was a kid. So I figured I should teach myself to cook like her. Since she wasn’t around and my dad certainly wasn’t about to do it.”

“And the red cabbage that’s currently stinking out my kitchen?”

“You’ll like it,” she said severely, as though it were a threat. “But yeah, that’s one of hers. Never had a recipe, I’ve kind of had to go by taste.”

She gulped eggnog, coughing a little at the kick of brandy in the back of her throat.

“What about you?” she prompted. “You cook?”

Weaver pulled a face, mouth flattening.

“Enough to keep myself alive,” he said. “I guess I could make you breakfast.”

Lacey snorted. “Easy, tiger.”

He sent her a flat look.

“I’m not asking you to spend the bloody night,” he said evenly. “I just meant I’m better at something quick then taking hours over it.”

“ _Really_ not selling yourself here.”

He sighed, exasperated, and she giggled.

“Okay, I’m teasing,” she said. “What’s a little innuendo between neighbours, hmm?”

“With this much brandy, probably a dangerous line to tread.”

“So live a little.” She winked at him, and he sighed again.

“How long have you lived on your own?”

“Since I was sixteen,” she said, and he winced.

“That’s rough.”

“Yeah, well…” She shrugged, taking a slurp of her drink. “Some years were harder than others.”

“Hmm.” He took another bite of his cookie. “And what do you do when you’re not pressing sugar and alcohol on your miserable neighbour?”

Lacey sighed, slumping a little in her seat.

“I work at Mr Cluck’s,” she said gloomily. “I know, not exactly the stuff of dreams, is it?”

“That depends on your dreams, I suppose,” he said. “But no, I doubt it’s your long term goal. Is there nothing else in your life you enjoy?”

“Good music and crappy whisky,” she said.

“Well, I can certainly supply the whisky.”

Lacey raised an eyebrow.

“Trying to get me drunk, Detective?”

“Says the woman who served up alcoholic custard,” he remarked.

“Hey come on, you love it!” she protested.

“Just what my body needs,” he said dryly. “Sugar, fat and a ton of alcohol.”

“That’s all the food groups, right?”

Weaver snorted in amusement, and she grinned as he took another drink. He was looking away from her, at the opposite wall where the TV sat, blank and empty, and she took the opportunity to run her eyes over him. Greying hair was growing in wisps over his slightly pointed ears, and the light painted gold highlights on his cheekbones, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He was really quite handsome, she decided. For a cop. She wondered whether he used the cuffs at his belt for anything more fun than arresting criminals, and bit back a grin at the thought of it.

Weaver turned his head to meet her gaze, and she felt herself blush a little. He had a look in his eyes, a weighing, measuring look, and she wondered what it was that he saw when he looked at her. Detectives had to be able to read people, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be the subject of his latest investigation.

“So come on, then,” he said. “What else do you like to do?”

Lacey pulled a face.

“Reading, mostly,” she said. “I guess I have a little fun hustling pool at Roni’s.”

“Oh, I know the place,” he said, with a nod. “A few of my sources tend to hang out there.”

“Well, I know a lot of the girls from _The White Rabbit_ go there after work,” she said. “They’re all really nice. I’ve spent a few nights swapping make-up tips in the ladies’ room. They even showed me a few of their moves.”

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “So if Mr Cluck’s gets a little dull, you’re gonna take up stripping?”

“Nah,” she said. “Not my thing.”

“Then why learn the moves?”

Lacey winked at him.

“Nothing wrong with putting on a show in the comfort of your own bedroom, am I right?”

Weaver stared at her for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. Eventually he looked away, taking a sip of his drink.

“So,” he said. “Christmas.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, drawing up her feet and tucking them under herself. “Is Santa bringing you anything?”

“The usual present of a stinking hangover, boredom and regret,” he remarked. “What about you?”

“No idea,” she said, wriggling in her seat to face him. “Which list do you think he put me on?”

Weaver took a drink, eyeing her over the rim of his glass, his gaze one of appraisal. Eventually he put down the glass, resting it on his thigh.

“I think you try to convince people you’re on the naughty list,” he said. “When secretly you never make it off the nice list.”

Lacey blinked.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

She gestured up and down herself.

“What is it about me that says ‘nice’ to you, huh?” she demanded, as though he’d just insulted her. Weaver gave her a lopsided grin.

“You forget I get my kicks from solving mysteries,” he said. “In terms of complexity, you’re a fucking open book.”

“I am _not_!” she protested, and he snorted.

“Please!” he said. “You already told me that you taught yourself to cook, and that you _like_ to cook, so good health and independence are important to you. You put all this effort into Christmas, so at heart you love traditional family holidays—”

“That’s because I like the food!”

“—and you work your arse off slinging fast food for minimum wage, when with looks like yours you could just as easily make way more money giving guys a lap dance,” he went on, counting off his points on the fingers of one hand. “But you never would, would you?”

He had a tiny smirk on his face, as though he knew full well that he was right. It was bloody annoying.

“There’s nothing wrong with earning your living by taking your clothes off for men dumb enough to pay for it!” she said stiffly, and he nodded.

“Of course not,” he said, “and that’s my point. You respect the women that do it, but you won’t do it yourself, which means you have empathy, but there’s also some guilt mixed in there too. Probably at least one religious parent or guardian that told you you had to cover yourself up. So you dress the way you do because it’s _just rebellious enough_ to satisfy your independent streak.”

He held up his thumb and forefinger, half an inch apart. Lacey realised she had her mouth open, and snapped it shut.

“How am I doing?” he asked. “You ready to admit that open book thing yet?”

“Fuck you,” she snapped, and he smirked.

“Somehow I doubt that’s on your bucket list.”

“It might have been if you weren’t so bloody annoying!”

Weaver chuckled then, turning a little to face her, his eyes gleaming darkly.

“You’re a traditional, hard-working, family-orientated ‘nice’ girl,” he finished, lifting his glass. “Who happens to enjoy a drink and wears short skirts.” 

“That’s such fucking bullshit!”

“And has a foul mouth,” he amended.

Lacey scowled at him.

“So how can I be a nice girl?” she demanded. “I’m not exactly the type you’d take home to meet your mother, am I? She’d _definitely_ think I was a stripper.”

“Probably,” he said. “But believe me, that’s about her, not you.”

“I don’t care,” she said obstinately. “I’d make a _great_ stripper.”

“But you never will.”

“I could if I wanted to.”

“Well, I’m not stopping you, be my guest.”

“And on that note…” She drained her glass, setting it down on the coffee table with a clunk. “I’m going home before this gets any weirder.”

She pushed up off the couch, smoothing the skirt of her dress as she headed for the door.

“You’re leaving the eggnog, right?” he called.

She ignored him, wrenching open the front door and slamming it, cutting off his chuckle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @goldenspinner prompted: 22: “You look like you belong on top of the Christmas tree”
> 
> @shipperqueen prompted: 8: "You put eggnog on your cereal?"

Lacey went to bed in a huff, irritated with Weaver and his perceptive assessment of her personality. She prided herself on the part she played, on the front she presented, on people not getting close enough to figure her out. In fact if she was honest no one ever had, and she couldn’t work out whether she was annoyed or impressed. Right at that moment she was leaning towards annoyed.

She lay back with her arms behind her head, a pleasant drowsiness from the alcohol making her body warm and loose. Weaver was a strange mix of snark and sarcasm and a low-level hum of ever-present energy. He seemed to her like the kind of person who would hold grudges and be relentless in his pursuit of anyone who wronged him. It probably made him a good detective. But there was something else there, too. The loneliness of self-imposed solitude. She wondered why he was alone, and why he told himself he was happier that way. Perhaps she’d ask him. She wasn’t that bad at reading people herself.

She slept surprisingly well, her head aching only a little, and a hot shower and fresh coffee chased away the faint hangover. She ate some toast and peanut butter while blaring out Christmas music from her phone and dancing around the kitchen in her PJs, after which she felt ready to face both the day, and her grumpy neighbour.

She dressed in her most festive outfit: a short flared green dress trimmed with white faux fur around the skirt and across the top of the bodice. Beneath the skirt were striped stockings which she wore with patent black shoes. A green hat topped with a white pom-pom was pulled down over her dark curls. Looking at her reflection made her giggle; if Weaver had an issue with cheery Christmas music, opening his door to a woman looking like one of Santa’s sluttier elves would probably give him a coronary.

She rummaged in the fridge and cupboards for everything she needed to make the Christmas dinner, packing it into the wooden crate she had used the previous day, and locked up the apartment, making her way down the hall. The crate was heavy, and she set it down before adjusting her ridiculous hat and banging on Weaver’s door. It seemed to take him a long time to answer, and she knocked again before she heard movement. He opened the door in a pair of cotton pants and a white vest, his feet bare. There was a scowl on his face, and his eyes were tired, stubble on his cheeks and chin. His mouth flattened a little when he recognised her.

“Merry Christmas!” she said.

“It’s fucking early,” he said.

“No it isn’t, it’s ten,” she said. “Don’t try and tell me you were asleep, I can smell the coffee.”

He grunted at that, and she held out the hem of her skirt, turning this way and that on the balls of her feet.

“What d’you think? Pretty fucking festive, am I right?”

“You look like you belong on top of the Christmas tree,” he said, and she gave him a flat look.

“Do you even _have_ a Christmas tree?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he said, and turned his back, pushing the door open so she could come in.

Lacey stuck out her tongue at his back, bending to pick up the crate of food and following him. He took it off her once she was through the door and he had locked it behind her, stomping through to the kitchen and shoving the crate onto the worktop. Lacey glanced around, noticing the pot of coffee on the table, a cup half-drunk beside it. She nodded to it.

“Wouldn’t say no, if you’ve got a cup going spare,” she said.

He took a mug from the cupboard, banging it down on the table and slumping back into his chair. Lacey grinned at him.

“So,” she said. “Just how bad _is_ your hangover?”

Weaver grunted again, taking a slurp of coffee.

“It’ll pass,” he said. “Remind me to go easy on the eggnog next time.”

Lacey frowned, and turned to the fridge, where the jug of eggnog had been chilling. It was almost empty, and she whirled to face him, the pom-pom on her hat bouncing indignantly.

“You drank it all!”

“No I didn’t, I - I may have had some after you left,” he said. “And possibly some this morning. Just a little.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“It’s delicious on cereal.”

“You put eggnog on your _cereal_?”

Weaver shrugged, sending her a slanting grin. “’Tis the season.”

Lacey sighed, exasperated.

“Right, well I’d better make some more, then,” she snapped, digging through her crate of things for a clean apron.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Stay out of my bloody way, that’s what!”

“Sounds perfect.”

He pushed back from the kitchen table, drained his coffee, and set down his cup, grinning at her before he headed off to the bathroom. Lacey huffed in irritation and turned to her crate of food, a smile spreading across her face as she pulled out her phone and chose the most obnoxious Christmas song she could find.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ctdg prompted: 19: "you know it's traditional, right?"

Lacey listened as the shower started running, and put her hands on her hips, looking at her ingredients and reminding herself what she needed to do. She pulled out her phone, adjusted her hat, started the Christmas music, and set to work on preparing the new batch of eggnog.

Weaver seemed to be in the shower for a long time, and she had finished the eggnog and put it in the fridge to chill by the time the bathroom door opened. The turkey was next to be done, and so she hunted through his cupboards for a suitable roasting tin, finding nothing. Sighing to herself, she tugged at her lip with her teeth. Surely he had _something_.

She wiped her hands on her apron and trotted off to see where he was. The bathroom was empty, the open door sending out steam that smelt of pine resin, mint and herbs. She poked her head around another door, and her eyes widened as she sucked in a breath with a tiny squeak.

Looking back, she supposed that she shouldn’t have been randomly looking in rooms when she knew he had just gotten out of the shower, but there again he should really have shut the door. Weaver’s bedroom was as neat as the rest of his apartment, and he was standing by the window with his back to her, using a towel to get the water off his shoulders. He was naked, droplets of water running down his back and over his backside, and she took a moment to appreciate it. He had a surprisingly pert butt, and she could feel herself grinning as she looked him over.

“You got anything to roast this turkey in?” she asked, and her grin widened as he flailed with the towel and tried to get it around himself.

“Jesus, woman!” he snapped.

Lacey almost giggled as he turned to face her, the towel now wrapped messily around his waist and his eyes shooting daggers at her. A nice chest, too. Just enough meat there to make her want to bite down.

“Well, if you will leave your door open,” she said lightly. “You got a roasting tin?”

“Top cupboard in the corner,” he said coldly.

"Well, why did you put it _there_?"

"As opposed to?"

"I don't know, somewhere logical, like near the bloody oven?"

"When I need help in rearranging my kitchen I'll let you know," he said. “Now bugger off and close the bloody door, would you?”

She obeyed, and sauntered back to the kitchen, grinning to herself. It was a little while before Weaver entered the kitchen, now fully dressed in jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The scent of shower gel and cologne was drifting into her nose, and his hair was still damp and a little messy. He had shaved, his eyes a little less tired, and she sent him a bright smile.

“Chase your hangover away?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said grumpily. “At least I had until I came in here and had to listen to that bloody racket.”

“It’s Christmas Day, I’m making Christmas dinner, so you have to put up with Christmas music,” she said flatly. “You know it’s traditional, right?”

“Traditional, my bloody arse,” he groused. “Some of those songs I’d never bloody heard of before yesterday.”

“Then I’m happy to have expanded your horizons,” she said, with a grin, and his mouth flattened. 

“And you wonder why I finished the eggnog,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, that stupid Christmas hippopotamus song? Still going around in my head at three a.m., so thanks for that.”

Lacey burst into giggles, and he rolled his eyes and picked up the kettle.

“You want some coffee?”

“Wouldn’t say no.”

He started making the coffee, leaning back against the sink with his arms folded as he waited for it to brew. Lacey cut onions, carrots and celery into thick pieces and dropped them into the tin before setting the turkey breast on top, tied up with string to keep its shape. She hummed along to the music as she worked, wiggling her hips in the elf outfit, and could sense that Weaver was watching her from the sink. _Probably thinks I’m losing it_.

“You like roast potatoes?” she asked, turning to face him.

“Who doesn’t?”

Lacey had to agree with that. She seasoned the turkey and put a tent of foil over the tin. The oven was hot, so she slid in the turkey and straightened up, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Okay,” she said. “Should take a couple of hours. I’ll make a start on the veggies.”

“What are you gonna cook?”

“Roast potatoes, glazed carrots, the red cabbage I made yesterday, and Brussels sprouts,” she said, and wagged a finger at him. “No complaining about the sprouts, they’re _essential_.”

“Who’s complaining?” he remarked.

“You, ever since I set foot in your apartment.”

Weaver sighed, looking a little weary.

“Well, I’m not used to company,” he said. “Don’t exactly play well with others.”

“Good thing life’s full of opportunities for personal growth, then, isn’t it?” she said tartly, and he chuckled.

“Is that what this is?”

Lacey pursed her lips, looking him up and down very deliberately, which made his eyes narrow suspiciously.

“It’s an opportunity of some kind,” she said finally. “Haven’t decided what yet. How’s that coffee coming?”

Weaver turned away and poured her a cup, handing it out to her wordlessly, and Lacey wiped her brow, tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear.

“You got any cream for this?” she asked, and one corner of his mouth pulled up.

“I’m sure there’s eggnog.”

She shot him a look at that, and crossed to the fridge, finding the last of the cream she had used to make the eggnog and pouring it in. She added sugar and stirred, and Weaver sipped his coffee, setting down his cup and reaching for the plastic container in which she had put the cookies. He handed it to her.

“Sit down,” he said. “Recharge for a minute or so.”

“No, I have things to do,” she insisted.

“Well, if you tell me what you need, I’m sure I can cope,” he said. “Just drink your bloody coffee, I can handle peeling some potatoes.”

He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down, smirking to herself as he reached for the potatoes. It was nice to cook with someone. It was nice to have some company for Christmas Day, however grumpy Weaver might be. Music playing, excellent coffee in her hands and the prospect of a delicious meal. Things could definitely be worse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @thatravenclawbitch prompted: 11: “Those - weren’t the kind of stockings I had in mind…”

Weaver made short work of the potatoes, and by the time Lacey had finished her coffee there was a pile sitting waiting for her attentions. He then peeled the carrots, asking her how she wanted them preparing before slicing the carrots along their length and cutting them in half to make thick batons. She made a start on the Brussels sprouts, and Weaver washed his hands and took two glasses from the cupboard.

“You want a glass of wine?” he asked.

“You have wine?”

“You sound surprised.”

Lacey shrugged.

“Assumed you were a whisky guy. Maybe a beer if you’re taking things easy.”

“I can enjoy other things,” he said, and retrieved a bottle from inside one of the cupboards.

“Oh yeah?” She smirked a little. “Like what?”

Weaver straightened up, turning to face her and leaning back against the counter with a twisted little grin on his face.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yeah, I’m a curious person,” she said innocently.

Weaver eyed her for a moment, then opened the wine and poured them a glass each. It was a deep burgundy, the scent rich and a little woody, and Lacey nodded her thanks as she took a glass.

“So,” she said. “You gonna make me guess?”

“I think that’s probably easier than showing you, yes.”

She pursed her lips, enjoying the flirting. Whether it would lead anywhere was another matter, but she had already decided that she liked him. Plus there was the issue of his butt. The glimpse she had had made it seem very enticing. Biteable.

“Okay, I’m willing to bet you’re a stockings kind of guy, right?” she said, and he smirked, raising a brow.

“A case could be made.”

“So…” She gestured to herself. “See? Stockings, short skirt - every guy’s dream, am I right?”

“Those - weren’t the kind of stockings I had in mind,” he said dryly, and she pouted.

“Hey, come on!” She held up one striped leg. “I look cute as fuck!”

Weaver grinned at that.

“So you’re gonna be wearing the elf costume next time you go to Roni’s bar, then?”

Lacey lowered the leg, shrugging.

“Okay, I didn’t say it was my _favourite outfit_.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know.” She took a sip of her wine. “Depends who - I mean what - I’m doing.”

His grin widened, his eyebrows twitching.

“You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?”

“Given the right encouragement.”

“Such as?”

Lacey grinned, crossing her legs very deliberately and watching as his eyes flicked up and down them.

“Well,” she said. “I kind of already saw you naked…”

“Then I can only apologise for the disappointment.”

“No need, believe me,” she said. “Looked pretty good from where I was standing.”

“Maybe you can return the favour,” he suggested.

“Maybe I will,” she said airily. “ _After_ dinner.”

“Tease.”

“If you’re lucky.”

He chuckled at that, taking a slurp of wine.

“You want to stay in here, or can we go through to the lounge?” he asked, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Yeah, I can probably leave the turkey for a little while,” she said, pushing to her feet. “Let’s go sit down. You never did tell me about the things you enjoy.”

She sent him a grin over her shoulder as she headed for the lounge, and he followed her through, slumping onto the couch beside her.

“I have to say my life’s pretty bloody dull when I’m not at work,” he said. “I come home to eat and sleep, that’s pretty much it.”

“Sounds like you need a hobby.”

“Beyond drinking alone and battling insomnia?”

“A _fun_ hobby.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know…” Lacey shrugged. “Something that gets you out of the house a little. Or - or maybe something that keeps you in, but involves less alone-time.”

He smirked.

“Write me a list of suggestions and I’d be happy to give you my thoughts.”

“What am I, your life coach?”

“Doubt you could do a worse job than I’m currently doing.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

Weaver chuckled again, and took a drink.

“So,” he said. “What do you think 2019 is gonna bring?”

Lacey snorted, settling back on the couch.

“More of the shitty same, I guess,” she said gloomily. “Countless hours working minimum wage just to scrape by.”

“You ever think about doing something else with your life?”

“Oh, sure,” she said sarcastically. “It’s just that subsistence living was always my dream, you know?”

He pulled a face. “I just meant that maybe you should think about where you want to be ten years from now, that’s all.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

Weaver gazed at her, and she took a drink, looking away to avoid getting lost in the dark depths of his eyes. She wondered how much he had seen, how much darkness in the world existed beyond her front door. How much people like him protected her from it.

“I suppose if I were honest, my life could be better,” he admitted. “But the work’s interesting and the benefits are good, so there’s that.”

“Two things I can’t say about my own, I guess,” she allowed, stretching her legs. “I just - I haven’t really planned anything, and by the time the day’s over I’m too tired to care. It’s a vicious circle.”

“Did you finish school?”

“Yeah,” she said. “But no cash for college and I’m terrified of racking up a massive student loan.”

Weaver turned to face her, arm resting on the back of the couch and wine sloshing in his glass.

“So, let’s say you could be anything,” he said. “What would you do?”

Lacey shot him a look.

“What is this, save Lacey French day?”

“It’s a way to kill an hour while we’re waiting on the delights of your cooking.”

“Seems like a pointless exercise.”

“You can give me your assessment afterwards,” he said firmly. “Come on, what are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid!” she snapped.

“Prove it.”

Lacey glared at him, but he was watching her closely, so she sat back with a sigh.

“Okay, fine,” she said. “If I could do anything I wanted, I’d work with animals.”

“As what?”

“I don’t know…” She shrugged. “Caring for them? If I was totally honest, I’d like to be a vet, but that takes years of study I haven’t done and degrees I don’t have, so…”

She pulled a face, raising her glass, and Weaver shrugged.

“So do something else,” he said. “There are other careers, you know. Things you _could_ do.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, let me think about it.”

Lacey sighed, letting her head roll back against the cushions as she met his eyes.

“Don’t you get bored of saving the world?” she asked wryly, and he raised his eyebrows, looking suddenly, terribly tired.

“Usually I’m brought in when someone’s life has taken the worst possible turn,” he said. “Maybe I’m bored of the darkness.”

Lacey grinned and raised her glass.

“To letting light into our lives,” she said, and he clinked his glass against hers.

“I’ll drink to that.”

She took a drink, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. He was very close, his body turned towards hers, and she could smell the scent of his cologne, a fresh, pleasant smell. It would be easy to lean over and kiss him, and she was almost surprised to find that she wanted to. It was a long time since she’d had a decent, long make-out session, and she got the feeling Weaver would be good at it. He was a detail-oriented sort of guy, after all. Perhaps she’d test her hypothesis after dinner.

“Veterinary assistant,” he said suddenly, and she blinked.

“Huh?”

“What you could do,” he explained. “Veterinary assistant. You only need a high school diploma for that. Pays way more than you’re making now, and if you find the right place, they’d support you in further study.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

“I’m not all doom and gloom, you know,” he said. “Very occasionally I have been known to bring a positive angle to things.”

Lacey grinned.

“That right?”

“ _Very_ occasionally.”

“Good to know,” she said, and winked at him. “Let’s see how positive your angle is later.”

Weaver smirked, eyebrows twitching.

“I can’t tell if it’s my mind that’s dirty, or yours,” he remarked.

“With any luck it’s both,” she said, and he laughed.

“I guess we’ll see.”

“Count on it.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @thespinningmeanie prompted: "I shouldn't be this attracted to an elf"

Lacey was pleased at how the dinner turned out, the turkey moist and tasty, its skin crispy and light and the rich gravy she made coating crisp roast potatoes and sweet, sharp red cabbage. There was silence as they ate, apart from their own murmurs of appreciation, and when they were done Weaver washed the dishes and poured them each another glass of wine.

It was later, when they were sitting on the couch with a plate of cookies on the table in front of them and glasses of whisky in their hands, that Lacey decided she definitely wanted to sleep with him.

It was his hands, she thought. He had nice hands, with long fingers, and the silver bracelet he wore around his wrist and his heavy rings drew attention to them. She found herself watching them when he talked, his fingers pointing, flickering and chopping to emphasise his words. She wondered how it would feel to have them on her body, caressing her skin, cupping her breasts. Pushing inside her. The thought made her breath catch, and she squeezed her legs together, feeling the pull of desire.

She had tried to assess whether or not he found her attractive. She thought that he did, and they had continued to flirt on and off throughout the day, but he was hard to read at times. Perhaps she’d just kiss him, see if he responded. After they had finished the whisky.

“So,” she said. “Thanks for letting me use your oven. Christmas definitely wouldn’t have been as merry if I couldn’t make myself sick with all that food.”

“Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” he grumbled, and she shot him a flat look.

“Admit it, you had fun.”

“I doubt my waistline will thank you.”

“Doesn’t stop  _ you _ from doing it.”

He grinned at that, his eyes twinkling.

“Thank you, Lacey,” he said gravely.

“There,” she said. “That wasn’t so hard, huh?”

He took another sip of whisky, letting his head roll back against the cushions.

“So, that’s Christmas over and done with,” he said. “What are your plans for New Year?”

“Are you asking me if I want to come over again?”

“No.”

“Miserable bastard,” she grumbled, and he chuckled.

“I’m working,” he said. “Seattle’s criminal fraternity doesn’t take a night off, you know.”

“Well, that’s very selfish of them,” she said. “How’s a girl supposed to have a good time on her own?”

“What makes you think you’ll be alone?”

She sighed heavily.

“Because I’d already decided who I wanted to kiss at midnight and I wasn’t planning on leaving this building,” she said. “So I guess it’s just me and the TV.”

He was eyeing her curiously, and she wondered if he’d taken the hint or was being deliberately clueless.

“Who do you want to kiss at midnight?”

Definitely being clueless.

“Well, I’m a woman of simple tastes,” she said. “Give me a guy who listens when I talk, cleans up after himself and has decent personal hygiene.”

“That doesn’t seem like very much to ask,” he said, and she snorted.

“Believe me, you’d think it was a list of the most unreasonable demands ever.”

“I still think you could do better.”

Lacey let her head roll to the side, watching him.

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe he could also have a steady job and the ability to beat the crap out of anyone who laid a hand on me that I didn’t want there.”

“Again, I don’t think you’re asking the world there,” he said.

“Maybe I’m not.”

She gazed at him steadily, and it was almost as though a light suddenly went on in his head. His eyes met hers, and she felt a shiver go through her at the sudden surge of dark desire in them.

“Maybe you’re not,” he agreed.

“I get the feeling you’re pretty adept at making people know you’re not happy with them,” she added.

Weaver grinned, eyes glinting darkly as turned towards her and leaned in a little, his nose almost brushing hers.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, sending a delicious shudder through her. “I even kill bad guys.”

He leaned back, the couch creaking a little under his weight, and Lacey met his eyes, the tip of her tongue sweeping across her lips as her heart thumped.

“That - must be hard, I guess,” she said, and he shrugged.

“It’s them or me. Alternatively it’s them or someone who doesn’t deserve it. No contest, really.”

“Hmm,” she said. “And - do you take that home with you? Must be hard to switch off every night.”

“Oh, there are ways,” he said, his voice enticingly low. “There are ways to make my brain shut down  _ completely _ .”

“Wanna show me one?”

The corner of his mouth pulled up in a wry grin.

“Just one?”

“You can go for four or five, if you have the stamina,” she offered, and his grin widened.

“Challenge accepted.”

He leaned in again, but this time his fingers stroked over her cheek, turning her head towards his as he bent to kiss her. Lacey captured his lips with hers, moaning a little as his tongue entered her mouth, and shifted on the couch until she was on her side, the glass of whisky wedged between them. His hand slid down over her shoulder and down her arm, slipping into the hollow of her waist and pulling her closer, and she let her hand stroke over his cheek, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath her fingertips and pushing into his hair. He felt good to kiss, his mouth soft and warm, and there was an urgency in it, his aura tingling in the air around them, seething with passion and desire. The kiss grew harder, more desperate, and his hand slid down over her hip, sliding down her thigh in its red-striped stocking. Weaver broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers as he glanced down.

“I shouldn’t be this attracted to an elf,” he said, and she giggled.

“Oh, I don’t know, Detective,” she teased. “Play your cards right, and you can get on the naughty list.”

“And here I was thinking I was already there.”

“Nope.” She tugged at his bottom lip with her teeth. “Definitely room for more naughtiness.”

He kissed her again, harder, his hand sliding up her thigh beneath her dress and squeezing her rear, and she pushed herself into him with a contented sound, her tongue stroking against his, the taste of whisky in his mouth. His lips brushed hers as he pulled back, his eyes heavy with desire.

“What do you want, Lacey?” he whispered, and she pursed her lips.

“I was thinking maybe you could take me to bed,” she said. “We could play hide the peppermint stick.”

He chuckled at that, eyes gleaming.

“There’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

“You could see what’s in my stockings,” she added. “I could jingle your bells.”

“I’m gonna need you to stop with the terrible festive innuendos.”

“Never.”

His mouth found hers again, his body pushing against her, until she was beneath him, and Lacey drew up one knee, moaning into his mouth as she felt the hardness of him rub against her through his jeans. Her fingers twisted in his hair, her kiss wet and messy and frantic, and Weaver pulled his mouth from hers, his breathing ragged.

“Bed?” he murmured, and she nodded.

“Bed.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @thespinningmeanie prompted: "I just kept pouring brandy in it. Seemed like a good idea."

Weaver pulled Lacey up off the couch, kissing her hungrily as he carried her from the lounge. Lacey's arms were twined around his neck, the kiss growing messy, her hands twisting in his hair and pulling him closer. It seemed to put him off his stride a little, and he barged into the wall as he strode to the bedroom, bringing a grunt from him and making her pull her mouth free with a giggle.

They reached the bedroom without further incident, and he kicked open the door with his foot and tossed her onto the bed. Lacey bounced on the dark grey blankets, hands flying out to steady herself, and watched as he unbuckled his belt. He seemed to shed his clothes very quickly, pants tossed over a chair and fingers working hurriedly on the buttons of his shirt, and she smirked a little as she lay back against the pillows.

“You seem eager.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a long time, don’t judge me.”

She giggled at that.

“Okay fine, but no being too quick on the draw.”

Weaver grinned.

“I’ll do my best to make sure you enjoy yourself.”

“I'm holding you to that.”

He got the shirt open, shrugging it from his shoulders, and raised an eyebrow at her.

"I don't have any protection, by the way," he said. "Wasn't exactly planning on this the last time I went to the store. Sorry."

"Well, I take a birth control shot," she said. "Is that okay? I have condoms back in the apartment if not."

"That's okay."

She eyed him as he stripped off the shirt, throwing it over his discarded pants, and peeled his vest over his head. It made the chain around his neck bounce against his skin, and Lacey ran her eyes over him, the lean lines of his arms and chest, smooth and lightly tanned, his belly a little soft. It made her want to draw her tongue over his skin, and she licked her lips.

“You look good, Detective.”

“The eggnog’s clearly affected your eyesight,” he remarked, crawling onto the bed with her, and Lacey giggled.

“If I like what I see I’m gonna tell you,” she said. “Now take this thing off me.”

The elf outfit was easy enough to remove, a case of Lacey sitting up and lifting her arms for him to pull it over her head. She unhooked her bra and lay back when he had sent it to join his own clothes, and Weaver whistled, running his eyes over her body.

“God _damn_ , how did I get this lucky?”

“I dunno, because you were a giant dick when we first met.”

“Sorry.” He loomed over her, bending to rub his nose against hers affectionately. “Lack of sleep makes me very irritable.”

“Hmm,” she said, amused. “Let’s see how obnoxious you are tomorrow, then.”

He chuckled, and she lifted her head up off the pillows to capture his lips with hers, fingers stroking through his hair as they kissed. Weaver groaned in appreciation, letting his body settle against her, and Lacey let her tongue stroke his, tasting the whisky on him, feeling his hand move down to cup her breast. She moaned, pushing up into his hand, and he deepened the kiss, his lips pulling at hers, his tongue probing. The hand slid lower, over her belly, pushing beneath the hem of her underwear, and Lacey gasped as he touched her, fingers sliding between her folds, stroking her gently. Weaver groaned into her mouth, his fingers growing slippery with her fluids, and she broke the kiss and let her head roll back with a sigh of pleasure as he grazed her clit.

"Yeah," she breathed. "More of that."

He bent his head to kiss her neck, fingertips sliding and rubbing, and she opened her legs a little as one finger pushed at her, sliding inside. Lacey moaned, arching upwards as he pushed deep, and his thumb stroked over her, circling her clit and making waves of sensation roll over her with each pass. She gasped, fingers raking his hair, and he began to thrust the finger in and out of her, a second joining it, stretching her, sinking into her up to the knuckles. Lacey could feel sweat forming on her upper lip, her body starting to tighten as he worked her, and she let out a tiny cry as he bit down into her neck, his low, guttural groan making her belly clench.

"Fuck!" she whispered. "God, that feels good! Harder!"

He increased the pace of his thrusts, long fingers pushing deep inside her, and she could feel her breath quickening, growing hard and fast and desperate. Her body was tense, the muscles of her limbs taut and trembling, and she let out a loud cry as her climax hit, a wave of pleasure washing over her. Weaver continued to slide his fingers in and out of her, slippery with her juices, and she jerked a little against his hand as he brushed her clit.

"Wow," she murmured.

The fingers slipped out of her, and she tried to catch her breath, eyes closed, feeling him grasp her underwear and pull it down over her hips. He drew it down her legs and off at her feet, and Lacey let out a contented sigh as she felt him kiss his way up her thighs. The first touch of his tongue between her legs made her rise up off the bed with a cry, and she fell back, moaning in pleasure as he licked her. He let out a deep groan of satisfaction as his tongue swirled over her, his hands pushing her thighs apart, new stubble scraping her delicate flesh.

"Fuck, you taste good!" he rasped. "Can't wait to get inside you, Lacey!"

"Yes!" she whispered. "Please!"

He pressed kisses to her, then pulled back, taking off his underwear and walking up the bed on his hands to lie between her legs. She hummed contentedly as she felt the hard length of him press up against her, and wriggled her hips a little, rubbing over him and making him growl. He was grinning down at her, his face sticky with her juices and his hair awry, and she reached up to slide a hand over his chest, fingers catching on the silver chain around his neck as she met his eyes.

"Well then," she whispered. "Here we go."

She grasped his shoulders and pushed, making his eyes widen in surprise as she turned them over until he was on his back. Lacey straddled him, reaching between them to take him in hand, her thumb rubbing over the head of his cock and making his head roll back as he groaned.

"Tease," he whispered.

"Only a little."

She shifted position, letting him rub up against her, the head of his cock sliding back and forth against her wet flesh, and he growled in response, eyes flicking open to meet hers.

"Fuck me, Lacey!" he rasped, and she grinned, lifting her hips a little as she lined them up.

She sank slowly onto him, taking him deep, and Weaver arched his back with a long, low groan as he thrust up into her. Lacey braced herself with her hands on his belly, eyes closed as she got used to the feel of him inside her, and began to move, gently rocking back and forth, concentrating on the sensation of him pulling out and thrusting in. The friction was delightful, and she quickened her pace a little, pressing down on him to increase the sensations. His hands slid over her hips, holding her tight against him, and she moaned at the feel of him buried deep inside her, rubbing against her. Bliss was rising through her, salty sweat on her upper lip, and she licked it away, closing her eyes as she ground against him. Her hips bucked as she neared her peak, breath coming hard in her lungs, and she let out a cry of pleasure as she came, clenching around him, fingers digging into the flesh of his belly.

She felt Weaver's hands tighten on her hips, holding her in place as she jerked against him, and as her movements slowed he sat up, an arm sliding around her waist and tugging her close as his mouth found hers. Lacey moaned, kissing him messily, fingers pushing through his hair, and he cupped her breast, squeezing as his tongue stroked hers. He broke the kiss, turning her onto her back, and she drew up her knees as he pressed against her, his eyes dark and deep, his breathing unsteady. Lacey nodded.

"Fuck me!" she whispered, and he gave her a slanting grin, reaching between them to guide himself into her.

She moaned as he sank deep, back arching, legs wrapping around him, and he groaned in response, his hands sliding up her arms to grasp her hands and push them down into the pillows. Lacey let out a tiny cry, smothered by his mouth as he kissed her, and he began to thrust, sliding in and out, his cock hard and thick inside her. She pulled her knees up a little more, until he filled her completely, enjoying the feel of his body against hers, the rough sensation of his stubble scraping her chin, his hair rubbing against tender flesh, sweat slicking their skin. She could feel him nearing his peak, his muscles tightening, cock growing rigid, breath coming in pants, and she let her hands slip to his shoulders, nails scoring his skin as he pounded into her. Her mouth left his, trailing down his throat, tongue swiping over salty skin, and she bit down, making him let out a hoarse cry. His movements quickened, thrusts deeper, harder, and he pushed up on his hands as he back arched, a loud groan coming from him as he came hard. His cock pulsed inside her, and the feel of it took her with him, bright lights bursting in her head as she let out a cry of pleasure, her hips bucking, her flesh tugging at him to pull him deep.

He pushed into her with a slow, final thrust, head hanging as he gasped for air, and Lacey trailed her fingers through his hair, licking her lips as her skin tingled with the after-effects of her pleasure. She could feel him start to soften inside her, and he raised his head a little, eyes heavy and contented.

"Well, well," he murmured. "That was - probably the best Christmas I've ever had."

Lacey smirked.

"Oh, it's not over yet," she said. "We have the whole night. You should probably get the cookies and eggnog. My guess is you'll need the energy."

His grin widened, and he bent to kiss her, a contented noise escaping him as their lips parted.

"I can handle whatever you want to throw at me, Miss French."

Lacey smirked, fingers twisting in the soft strands of his hair.

"Gonna hold you to that." 

* * *

Lacey woke slowly, eyes resisting her attempts to open them. Her throat was parched, her head thumping, and she groaned as she felt the first effects of her hangover. She licked dry lips, pushing up a little and turning the pillow before flopping down again with a sigh. The cotton was deliciously cool against her hot cheek, and she closed her eyes again, willing her head to stop throbbing. A body was pressed up against her, hot skin slippery with a sheen of perspiration, and she turned reluctantly, sliding an arm around Weaver's waist and opening her eyes to meet his. They were dark and sleepy, with a heavy-lidded look of contentment she had never seen on him.

"Morning, beautiful," he said, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"If you say so."

She felt anything but, and pouted a little, but his smile widened and he kissed her forehead.

"Why did I think it was a good idea to mix drinks?" she sighed. "Why dd you _let_ me?"

"Come on, you had fun."

"I did," she conceded. "Merriest Christmas I've had in years. Paying for it now, though."

He pulled away from her, slipping from the bed and pulling on a pair of loose pants.

"Why don't I make some coffee?" he suggested.

"God, I could marry you!" she said fervently, and he grinned.

"I'd say at least buy me a drink first, but I think we covered that last night." He took a clean white vest from one of his drawers and pulled it on. "I'll bring you some coffee. You want anything else?"

"I'm thinking your idea of eggnog for breakfast might work as a hangover cure," she grumbled, and his grin widened.

"I'm not sure there's enough left, but I'll take a look."

She needed the bathroom, so she threw back the covers as he left, snatching up his discarded shirt and pulling it on. Sounds from the kitchen caught her ear as she headed for the bathroom: cupboard doors being opened and closed, water running. By the time she got back in the bedroom she could hear the kettle boiling, and she kept the shirt on and got back beneath the covers, wriggling a little in the warmth of his bed. Her body was aching a little from their evening's activities, and she allowed herself a lazy grin as she remembered it. Weaver had stamina.

The sight of him appearing in the doorway was one she decided she'd be more than happy to see again in the future; he had the battered tray she had used, set with a pot of coffee, two mugs and a carton of cream. There were also two glasses of what looked suspiciously like eggnog, and she grinned as she pushed herself up on her hands.

"Breakfast of champions," he announced, setting the tray down. "I seem to remember you take cream in your coffee."

"Cream and sugar," she confirmed. "Gimme the alcoholic custard first, though."

Weaver chuckled at that, and handed her a glass. Lacey gulped at it, and almost choked as a strong hit of brandy burned her throat.

“Oh my _God_!” she spluttered, her eyes watering. “What did you _do_?”

“Well, there wasn’t much left,” he said. “So I just kept pouring brandy in it. Seemed like a good idea.”

“If I drink this I won’t get out of this bed!” she complained, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?”

Lacey coughed a little, eyeing him as she wiped her eyes and set her glass on the nightstand.

“No.”

“Me neither,” he said, with a shrug. “It’s just - well, you could stay. If you want.”

She pushed herself up on the heels of her hands, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms around them.

“You want me to stay?”

“If you want.” He looked almost hesitant, glancing at the drink in his hand. “You could maybe teach me how to make something that doesn’t taste terrible.”

She grinned at that.

“Might take me longer than a day or two,” she teased, and one corner of his mouth drew up.

“I’m okay with that.”


End file.
